


Heart in a box

by Little_blue_worm



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, I'm Sorry, M/M, This is not Happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_blue_worm/pseuds/Little_blue_worm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was a god, an enigma, a muse and a terror all in one. With such a tragically handsome face it was no surprise he reminded Grantaire of the sirens who would perch on the rocks and call the hapless sailors to their deaths with only the most innocent of intentions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart in a box

**Author's Note:**

> It was meant to be kind of happy. I think if I ever get time I will write another one which is much happier, maybe.

It is a common mistake to make, to love without regret or any sort of barrier, to throw yourself into the deep end of the pool before you are even sure it is the deep end and that you won’t in fact end up breaking your legs when it is actually only waist high with a blue tiled bottom. Honestly, he could say to himself in earnest that he had not meant to fall in love with him the way he had. If the choice had been there, he would have held a little of himself back, but like many things in life he had no say. He had no say in the way his heart fluttered, to the point where at times he had to check to reassure himself it had not grown wings and simply flown away. There was nothing he could do to stop the way his smile caused a sharp pain in his knees which almost made them buckle like some teen from an 80's movie. There was certainly nothing he could do about the complete and desperate devotion he gave to the man who did not care for it, nor really ever want it. 

Often, as most people do, Grantaire made a habit of mixing in things which would eventually hurt him. Whether it was absinthe, cigarettes or angry revolutionaries in red waistcoats, the tendency to fall into what would lead to his eventual demise was addicting. Falling in love had been the most intoxicating of them all, and in the end he supposed it had been the most dangerous too. Love is heralded as beautiful, wondrous, as golden as any angel's crown of righteousness- or maybe just Enjolras's righteousness- but in the end as with most things in life something went wrong. If only he had known where it was it had all fallen apart.

He had given him his heart in a box, not a box of velvet or encrusted in jewels, but a box of himself. The lid did not shut properly and the hinges creaked whenever they were put into use and if you did not know of the precious cargo within it, you could easily mistake it for driftwood washed up on some desolate shore. He had presented this box with a glimmer of hope in his eyes and a nervous twitch which would not leave, for he had never given his box to anyone before. The box had been taken from him politely with an awkward smile, before being placed on the mantle piece behind a large picture frame so it was almost out of sight. No box was given in return. 

Grantaire would like to pretend he had not expected anything different, but such casual lies are easily broken apart under even a blush of scrutiny- which is nothing compared to what Eponine had given it. As a friend, she had cared for him when no one else had, when every one else had written him off as the drunkard in the corner who could occasionally be found slashing paint on a canvas which sometimes looked oddly pretty. She had laughed at his off-kilter jokes and had smiled when he suggested there was perhaps more to life than the next bottle of wine, but that he was still searching for what exactly that was, and she had offered to help him find it. 

In a way, she had. In a way, she had also hammered the last nail into the coffin he had spent his whole life building.

Once, she asked why he never painted anything beautiful or melodious like some did. Grantaire simply replied he had seen nothing truly beautiful to draw, so he then asked to draw her. In a way that a cynic could, perhaps in a way on he could, he did not draw her beauty. In such a small sketch, for that is all she ever allowed him to do after seeing the beginnings of it, he managed to put everything in which she despised. In every stroke of the pencil on the paper was her burning desire for the man she loved but could never have. In every line which made up her face and skin, the pain she pushed to the back of her mind was evident. He had of course let her keep it, but he didn’t have to know she had almost immediately burnt it and she never figured he needed to. She'd stayed around his one night, after they'd drunk too much absinthe whilst watching the latest movie Eponine had been dying to see, both of them crashing out on the floor before even making it to the sofa. She'd woken earlier then him, everyone seemed to for he often said rising early in the morning was like rising for the plague, and had found a stash of sketches piled up next to sofa. Amongst them was a sketch of himself, and it hurt to see the way the pen had splattered over his cheeks, had scratched the crook into his nose and stabbed at his asymmetrical jaw. Eponine had never figured him to be beautiful, or conventionally attractive in any way, but the self deprecation which had dripped from the page even then had made her baulk. .

When Eponine had introduced Enjolras to him, it had seemed like any other day. He rose as early as he could without seeing the sun breach the sky and instead had woken to the warm light already dancing in the dust through the window. He had dressed, as lazily as possible, and had headed for something to warm his throat which did not contain the whiskey his taste buds ached for. Two months sober, and ridiculously proud of himself for it. In fact, a feeling of pride had been following him a lot and the feeling flowed through his veins like its own kind of warmth, even the sun's rays did not seem so harsh. 

That had all fallen apart when he had first set eyes on the angel he was sure was lost within the human world. The rays of the sun which had been dimmed to him were all but extinguished in the light of the man before him. Never before had he wanted to draw such raw beauty, never before had something bewitched him as the man before him did. When the Apollo before him smiled, it was as if the pen was scratching against the paper without his permission. Once it was finished, it was so glorious that Grantaire wasn't even sure if he himself had drawn it, or if some invisible force had simply channelled through him and drawn it with his hands. Before long there were ink stains on his fingers and indents on his thumbs from his desperation to capture the man on paper- which he did frequently. 

It didn’t take long for him to fall in love, and it didn’t take long to realize Enjolras had no requited desire. Oh there was physical attraction, the way he kissed the artist in the darkest moments of the nights and rutted his hips against his on a blissful Saturday morning proved such- but there was no love left in the marble god's heart. 

Enjolras’s box had been sealed up many years ago and was reserved for his one and only love, France. The locks and chains placed around the box made it fortified against all hopes, especially those put up by a man whose box was made out of simple wooden scraps and which had nothing on the platinum and diamond casket his love had forged. He'd never been bothered in the pursuit of love before, and Eponine had laughed in his face when Grantaire had suggested things changed. She was often far more right then he ever gave her credit for. 

At first the changes within him were not obvious; it was the small things which showed a growing turn in the tide, however temporary it was. His paintings became truly stunning, wrapped within an exquisite light as if painted by a brush made of gold and hope itself. The bottles which had loitered in the back of the cupboard, untouched but still calling faintly in the bleakest moments, had been removed completely. He started attending each and every one of his lectures and begun to live the life he had promised himself he once would. 

The whole thing was doomed to fail from the very beginning; none of the changes he made were for himself. Simmering on the edge of his subconscious was the truth, they were for the blond god who did not give them a second glance. It was a dangerous game; it was playing with fire and hoping that he wouldn't end up burnt, despite his love drenching him in more and more petrol each and every time they kissed. It was no secret Enjolras did not love him, he didn't even admire him really, but if Grantaire closed his eyes he could pretend there was a warmth directed towards him within his lover’s eyes, and if he concentrated really hard then he could almost fool himself into believing that deep down Enjolras really did love him and not the feel of another's body on a cold night. 

But foolery and masquerading the inevitable truth would never have been enough. 

When the penny finally properly dropped, the changes were absolute.He couldn't even remember what the argument had been about, certainly something to do with his overriding disbelief in Enjolras's desperate attempts to change the world. Mostly he shook the cruel words off, as they could only cut him as far as he let them, but it had been different. Words of bitter anger still floated in his head, worthlessness, drunkard, hopeless. The bottles returned to the shelves, but rather than collecting dust as they once had, they were brandished each night with a glass or mug. His paintings became tainted once more with the darkness which lurked in his heart, which blackened the box his heart rested in, still sat primly on Enjolras’s mantelpiece like a trinket you held no value for but could not be thrown away as the giver would be offended. He withdrew from everyone except Enjolras, hoping that if he gorged himself on the man to the point where it made him sick, he would no longer crave any more of him. He was of course wrong. 

Perhaps the worst part was that Enjolras did not appear to notice any of it. He didn’t see the dark shadows under his lover’s eyes each night, did not even bother to look into his eyes once. He even ranted about his one true love right in front of Grantaire, talking of liberty and a desire for freedom for his Patria, for whom he would gladly give his life. Grantaire did not tell him he would give his own life for his love, for it seemed irrelevant. He wasn't even sure Enjolras would notice his body if it lay at his feet anyway. 

The box on his mantelpiece gathered dust, and the heart within it twisted and shrunk and blackened and crumbled like a statue of the Apollo he loved so much washed away in the acidic rain. It had never hurt so much before, but he had never loved like it before. He hadn’t been warned it would break him, even the greatest of cynics believed in a true love brighter than stars in the night sky, and once more he was given yet another reason to believe in nothing and no one. 

And yet with all the reasons in the world, he found he still believed in his Apollo. 

He avoided Eponine like the plague knowing what she would say, and he avoided those who had called him their friend, unsure what to believe any longer and unwilling to chance that it was their pity of misconstrued view of him which gave them the desire for his friendship in the first place. He even doubted if Eponine had been sincere in her want for his companionship. The worst was, he knew Enjolras held no value for him as a person, had seen it in the way he would laugh awkwardly whenever Grantaire tried to speak with him softly in the darkest hours of the night when they were alone, and the way he desperately avoided kissing him and had no longing to hear his voice or ideas when not moaning his name. And yet out of all of them, it was Enjolras, the one who hated him, who he chose to stick to. Courfeyrac had called around twice after he had completely withdrawn, Jehan had brought coffee and cupcakes to his door and had left them with a pink card telling him he was always loved. Every so often a text message would come through from one of his friends asking if he was alright, begging to see him just to make sure he was okay or just to let him know what the plans were just in case he ever chose to join them- he never did. 

He was a god, an enigma, a muse and a terror all in one. With such a tragically handsome face it was no surprise he reminded Grantaire of the sirens who would perch on the rocks and call the hapless sailors to their deaths with only the most innocent of intentions. He doubted Enjolras chose to hurt him, doubted it had even occurred to the man to think about Grantaire’s emotions in the matter, that Grantaire could see it as anything more than meaningless ways to fill in hours of the day and spend excess passion. 

Soon, Grantaire had no passion left to give to anything but Enjolras, and not long after even the lust faded. He felt dirty each time he was left tangled in his own sheets, sweating and swearing and left completely alone. He felt tainted every time Enjolras would finish, and then raced around his room to collect his clothes and leave as fast as possible in time to reach his Politics lecture, or meet with a friend, or simply get away. Even painting lost its appeal, the colours appearing far too garish and bright to the dim light of the world. 

One day, Eponine and Courfeyrac had finally cracked. She had tried watching her beloved friend fall back into old habits, had tried not to interfere as she watched his heart break a little more each day and the bitter cynicism to overtake his life once more - but she couldn't. The pair had sought out their leader, had questioned why Grantaire had all but vanished leaving a ghost in his place. She would never forget the way that Enjolras’s mouth fell slack as she told him what he had done, the effect he was having, the pain he was inflicting without even noticing. 

The next day Grantaire found his box waiting on his doorstep, left abandoned with a note attached simply saying sorry. 

The day after, the heart within it stopped beating.


End file.
